


How Not to LARP

by Balder12



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bat Cave, Fluff, Humor, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Sam Winchester, Season/Series 08, Sexual Content, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:17:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balder12/pseuds/Balder12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean loves LARPing.  That doesn't make it a good idea for him and Sam to do it in the Bat Cave.  With real swords.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Not to LARP

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Cherie-Morte](http://cherie-morte.livejournal.com/) at the [The Batcave Fic and Art Comment Fest](http://glovered.livejournal.com/99804.html). This also fulfills the Dean/Sam space on my [SPN Pairing Bingo](http://spnpairingbingo.livejournal.com/) card.

Dean was cool. He had the car and the tunes and the leather jacket to prove it. Okay, so maybe he got a little misty when Spock died in the  _Wrath of Khan_. He wasn’t made of stone. The point was, just because he’d liked LARPing with Charlie didn’t make him a nerd. Swords were cool. Even the kind made out of pipe insulation foam and duct tape.  
  
The real swords in the Bat Cave were way, way cooler. The day Dean discovered the armory he spent the afternoon jumping around the library with a Medieval broadsword, thrusting it at imaginary dragons. Sam furrowed his brow into his pissiest bitch face and threw his arms protectively around his precious books whenever Dean ran by.  
  
“You’ll put your eye out,” Sam said. “And I don’t want you bleeding all over something important.”  
  
But Dean’s eyes were still totally intact when he got bored of the broadsword and wandered off to the kitchen. He’d already discovered that the liquor cabinet was a dream come true, full of single malt scotch and 100 year old port. Now, though, he noticed for the first time a dusty book called “The Fine Art of Mixing Drinks” tucked behind a bottle of Mortlach.  
  
Twenty minutes, four lemons, and two test drinks later, Dean had mixed a totally excellent sidecar. It tasted sweet and sort of girly, so he took a glass to Sam in the library. Sam, of course, loved it. He even rolled up the Greco-Phoenician-Aramaic-whatever-the-fuck scroll he was looking at and let Dean put on a Zeppelin record.  
  
It didn’t take long for the two of them to drain the shaker. When it was done Sam shook it mournfully over his glass, getting only a few drops of melted ice.  
  
“I guess we killed it,” Sam said. He was shiny-eyed and pink when he looked up. Dean was tempted to throw him down on the table then and there, right in the middle of the lost works of Aristotle. Or maybe on that giant Risk board. Sam sprawled out over the South Pacific was the closest Dean was ever going to get to sex in Tahiti. He shoved down the thought. They hadn’t done that since he’d gotten back from Purgatory, and the longer they waited the weirder it got. Instead he grabbed the broadsword and said, “Loser mixes the second batch.”  
  
Sam gave him a skeptical look and Dean thought he wasn’t going to go for it, but then he broke out in dimples and snatched a scimitar from the wall. Dean backed his way up the stairs and Sam followed, both of them waving their swords around dramatically. It’s not like they were actually crossing blades. They were drunk, not suicidal. There was always a good space between them. Like, at least two feet. Completely safe.  
  
They fought their way over couches and tables and counters, one or the other standing triumphantly on top of any object that afforded him the high ground, at least until it tipped over. When they fought through the communal showers—which, why did the Men of Letters even have communal showers? Dean was convinced the room only existed to facilitate furtive gay hookups and the occasional all out orgy—Dean turned on the cold water over Sam’s head. Sam was pissed and laughing and drenched, and it was totally worth it, even when Dean immediately slipped on the wet tiles and slid into him, nearly making “fall on your sword” literal.  
  
Sam shoved him back and dashed out the door. Dean followed, but when they were face to face in the hallway Sam lowered his scimitar, suddenly serious.  
  
“Man, you’re bleeding.”  
  
“ _You’re_  bleeding!” Dean retorted. Which didn’t make a lot of sense as a comeback. Damn, those sidecars were strong.  
  
“Seriously. Like, a lot.” Dean looked down and noticed for the first time that blood had soaked through his jeans from his left thigh to his knee. Then his view was blocked by Sam’s head as it dripped all over his shoes.  
  
“I think you need stitches.” When Sam looked up he was pale and worried.  
  
“It’s only a flesh wound,” Dean said, but Sam didn’t smile at the Monty Python reference, and Dean realized he had no choice but to indulge Sam’s mother hen instincts. Which were stupid. Dean could barely feel the cut.  
  
Sam insisted on supporting Dean all the way to his bedroom, even though he could walk just fine, and then dropped him on his bed.  
  
“Hey,” Dean said, “you better not get any blood on my memory foam.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s just a bed, Dean, not the Impala.” But he arranged a stack of towels on top of the mattress anyway.  
  
Sam wrestled Dean’s jeans off, which was a challenge given that the fabric was soaked in water and blood. It stuck to the wound, and although Sam did his best to peel it off gently, by the time Dean was finally stripped down to his boxers he was a little less sure that Sam was overreacting.  
  
Sam poked at the long, narrow gash running horizontally along Dean’s thigh and looked relieved. “Okay, stitches it is. This is normally where I’d offer you a shot of whiskey, but I think this time you’re good.”  
  
Dean grumbled about his brother being a sadist, but the truth was that the sting of the needle was far away. Whether it was the liquor or the blood loss Dean was floating above himself. He was blessedly unconscious by the time Sam finished the job.  
  
**************************************************  
  
Dean woke up wrapped in a blanket and the awesome dead guy robe. Sam had moved him to a leather armchair and propped his leg up on a footstool. He was tempted to bitch about Sam bringing crap into his room, but honestly the chair was pretty great. Maybe he’d keep it.  
  
He gingerly peeled back his bandages. The stitches were crooked, which was what he got for letting a drunk operate on him. He understood now why Sam had freaked out. The cut was awfully close to his femoral artery. In the cold, headache-inducing light of day, fighting with sharp swords wasn’t Dean’s greatest idea. Pipe insulation foam and duct tape might not be as cool as the real thing, but they were way safer.  
  
Sam came in carrying a bona fide breakfast tray, like the kind guys in movies bring their girlfriends on Valentine’s Day. All that was missing was the single rose.  
  
“I can walk to the kitchen, Sam. I’ve got six stitches. You didn’t cut my leg off.”  
  
Sam set the tray down on Dean’s lap a little harder than necessary. Dean winced. “I didn’t cut anything. You kamikazed yourself onto my sword. I’m just trying to do something nice for my dumbass, invalid brother.”  
  
Sam sat on Dean’s memory foam mattress and made a half-hearted attempt to look like he wasn’t eagerly waiting for Dean to eat what he’d made. Dean looked down warily. He’d eat it, even if it was salad and tofu, because this was obviously Sam’s “sorry I tried to kill you with a scimitar” gesture, but he really hoped it wasn’t going to come to that. He was pleasantly surprised to discover that it was a massive bacon and fried egg sandwich and a glass of orange juice. Not a vegetable in sight. He tore into it like it might escape.  
  
“What? No coffee?” Dean said between bites. There was no point in falling on a scimitar if he couldn’t give Sam shit for at least a couple of days.  
  
“You don’t need the caffeine. You’re dehydrated. Drink the juice.”  
  
Dean started to set the glass aside—he wasn’t an eight year old with the flu, for God’s sake—but Sam looked so sad about the rejection of what was apparently his juice-based love offering that Dean changed his mind and drank it down.  
  
Sam went to collect the tray, but Dean grabbed him by the arm and dragged him down to sit on the arm of the chair. “You don’t need to go yet.” Sam allowed himself to settle, his weight warm and familiar against Dean’s side. They hadn’t touched like this in more than a year. They sat there together, no sound between them but the accelerating rhythm of their breathing.  
  
“You know,” Sam said, after a while, “there’s something else I could do to make you feel better.” The tone would’ve been flirtatious if his voice wasn’t shaking.  
  
Dean looked up. Sam was chewing on his lip, watching Dean with a mixture of hope and terror, like a teenage boy who’d just put his hand on a girl’s knee in the movie theater.  
  
“Yeah?” Dean said, and he tried to put as much of a ‘yes’ into it as he possibly could. “What were you thinking?”  
  
Sam was still biting a hole in his lip as his hand slipped down inside Dean’s robe. Dean was achingly hard by the time that Sam’s fingers brushed tentatively past his navel. Sam’s hand was dry, and his callouses were rough, and his touch was just this side of painful. He pressed his face against Dean’s temple. His skin was sticky and flush, and his breath in Dean’s ear held the familiar catch of arousal. Dean came with Sam’s hair brushing against his cheek. Sam wiped his hand on his jeans and slid down bonelessly, like he was the one who’d just gotten off. He was practically in Dean’s lap.  
  
“I knew you couldn’t resist me in the dead guy robe,” Dean said.  
  
Sam made a face. “I’d be a thousand times more turned on right now if you’d stop referring to it as the ‘dead guy robe.’” He didn’t make any move to get off of Dean’s lap, though. Sam was an unreasonably heavy son of a bitch, and in about two minutes this position was going to get agonizingly uncomfortable, but Dean let him stay.  
  
Dean was right the first time. Sword fighting was the best idea he’d ever had.


End file.
